


Doppio.

by sodakissed



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Awkward Flirting, Crushes, Flirting, M/M, Millennial Struggle, Pining, Short & Sweet, Student Struggle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-17 13:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14833316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sodakissed/pseuds/sodakissed
Summary: Jihoon isn't a bitter person by default, but working minimum wage in an off-campus coffeehouse to make ends meet between his tuition, rent, and living expenses while trying to promote his SoundCloud dreams is proving more insufferable than he thought. In an attempt to make it worthwhile, he's dragged into a competition with his coworkers to see who will receive the most tips by the end of term.All hope seems lost until a very sweet and silly customer makes his way into the neighborhood cafe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is [10, nine, 8](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12669117)'s Ch.123 raffle reward for @[shiny-carat](https://shiny-carat.tumblr.com/) who simply requested a junhoon coffeeshop au :)  
> i'm hoping to publish all of these chapters in little mug-sized servings for you to sip on in the following weeks or so ♥  
> Thanks for tuning in and enjoy!~

**SHORT BLACK**

_the foundation and most important part to every espresso-based drink. one shot of espresso in an espresso cup._

 

* * *

 

          Extra, extra, read all about it! Local twenty-something sets neighborhood coffeeshop ablaze.

          No one is injured, and nobody cares because—ideally—everyone understands that working minimum wage with a laughable amount of tip money would drive anyone crazy enough to torch this place, collect on the insurance, and cash-in on unemployment—or at least that’s what Jihoon’s somewhat misinformed opinion is on the trials and tribulations of _sitting on your damn hands until the 1pm lull suddenly turns into the 2pm rush._

          Ah yes.

          Cappuccino for you, macchiato for you. _You_ just want an espresso romano _only_ because you want to sound cool in front of your date. Who drinks coffee with lemon on the rim? This asshole apparently. Thanks for your 25 cents—that will not help anyone’s cause—and spare pocket lint, Stephen. Please choke.

          “Have you considered that you’d get more tips for all of us if you _smiled_ , Jihoon?”

          It must be easy to smile on a gray, April day when you’re a happy fool like Mingyu. That bumbling busybody never stops cleaning or greeting customers. Being a chatterbox won’t impress the boss’ son who doesn’t give two shits about coffee, but Jihoon supposes that the clumsy, young barista is the shift lead for a reason, “I’m smiling.” This is as much as he can smile. He’s already had to clean up baby vomit from the carpet this morning and scrubbed a ‘miscellaneous mess’ from the bathroom door.

          “You’re,” Mingyu blinks a few times and furrows his brow like he’s trying his best to find the joy and brightness in his face, “You’ve,” Just say it, you buffoon, “You gotta work on it a bit.”

          “Jihoon smiling in earnest is the best joke in the book and we both know that.” Actually, Sam, the best joke in the book is your low-brow stab at humor, thanks.

          He opts to ignore his coworkers and focus on wiping down the counter. As fun and invigorating as the afternoon rush is, there are many other things that Jihoon would rather spend his time doing such as—but not limited to—farming bitcoins, playing cookie clickers, filing his taxes, or slamming his head into a dated fax machine. But we can’t all have what we want. As long as the world requires you to pay rent and buy food, he’s stuck at this job.

          Okay, so, he _should_ be grateful he even has a job. Jobs are hard to come by these days, especially the ones near campus. He can clock out and be in his lecture hall within ten minutes which is great. He would have gotten a job on campus, but those filled up quite quickly and he can’t imagine working in the dining hall would be much better than this coffeeshop. At least he gets free drinks and food here- well, it’s not supposed to be free, but Minghao said he could have whatever he wanted. The place does well enough that sparing a handful of meals for their employees is hardly noticeable when they check inventory and balance books.

          He wishes it was Minghao and his easy-going, humane personality that signed his paycheck and set his salary, but it’s his rather stingy parents that do-

          Did someone stick gum to their tip jar?

          That’s just low.

          There’s a trashcan- _two trashcans._ One is over by the door and the other is over by the counter. They just felt the need to spit their gum out and rub it into the grated holes of their tip container. What kind of soulless, pathetic, absolute gar-

          A customer, Jihoon.

          A.

          Customer.

          Let’s try to get at least get a dollar this time.

          He’s tired of having the lowest total out of the three of them so far—and yes, he knows that starting a bet with boyfriend-goals Mingyu and cutie-patootie Samuel wasn’t a wise choice—, but if he has even the _slightest_ chance to beat them and get the entire lot of tips from now till the end of term, he’ll _finally_ have enough to buy that used midi-board he’s been eyeing at Pascal’s Music Store for the last four months. All he has to do is get the most tips and even though he’s almost two weeks behind the other two, _this customer_ will be the first to leave him a decent tip- but does he _have_ to come in with sopping wet shoes and a dripping coat? At least he’s trying to dry off a bit on the floormat, but Jihoon will make sure that it’s Sam who mops up when they close, not him.

          Clearing his throat, Jihoon bares a rather forced smile. He rubs his fists into his pockets until they loosen up enough to be gentle hands. And while his gaze is fixated on the counter in an attempt to build up some sort of character for this customer, it’s the customer who speaks first.

          “Hello!” Oh god, it’s one of _those_ people. How can anyone be this _jolly_ at 3pm? It’s _pouring_ outside.

          “Hello, welcome to BLAQ Coffeehouse.” The sudden bright and cheery voice calls the attention of both his coworkers and he _knows_ that they’re sharing a moment behind him—probably throwing a punchline or two about how he’s finally putting in an effort and they won’t have to call the bet off in pity. He just hopes that Mingyu doesn’t drop anything, “How’s your day going?”

          “My day?” It’s a courtesy question, please don’t answer in full, “It’s been nice. Kinda wet outside.” No shit, Sherlock, “How about you?”

          Despite knowing that it’s a social norm and totally expected that you _should_ return the question, Jihoon much prefers the customers who don’t give a shit about him and just order their coffee and go, “It’s been alright, just finished the afternoon rush.” He finally has the energy to attempt to make eye contact. Maybe if this kind stranger looks into his eyes, he’ll see that Jihoon is desperate for a good tip, get his drink, and skedaddle.

          Well, so much for that, his hood is also drenched and is hanging rather low, blocking out the details of most of his face. He doesn’t look homeless, in fact, he looks quite well-to-do. He’s got nice shoes, nice clothes, and a new backpack—probably a student from the college—and his hands are holding a name-brand wallet, “Do you know what you want to order? If you have any questions, feel free to ask.”

          It’s slow right now, so Jihoon doesn’t actually mind that he’s taking his time to go over the large chalkboard menu hanging above his head—oh the times he’d wished the damned thing would just unhinge and knock him unconscious—with all the drink descriptions and size-pricing. It’s better than having customers who order something in a panic and decide they don’t like it after downing half a glass—sorry, Carol, Costco is the only place where you can return a half-eaten carton of eggs, not your neighborhood coffeeshop, “Can I get a decaf,” _decaf_ , “blended caramelatto to go.”

          Absolutely atrocious, “What size?”

          “Regular?” He draws out like he’s unsure.

          Who drinks coffee just to get decaf? This person has essentially ordered melted caramel ice cream and if he wanted melted caramel ice cream, he should have just gone to the 7-11 across the street where it’s only $2.50 instead of the $4.00 he’ll be shelling out here, “This one?” Jihoon pulls one of the plastic cups from the stack to show him.

          “Yep, or whatever’s easier, I don’t mind.” Okay, maybe he’s not so bad. Jihoon quite likes the patrons who try to make their lives easier or at least have a little compassion in their hearts.

          “Four dollars, flat.” He waits to see if he pulls out a card or cash, keeping his hand on the left side of the touchscreen kiosk for easy turning, but he pulls out a ten and hands it over, “Thank you.” And he pokes a few buttons to make change and hands him the bills.

          The customer takes the bills and pockets them for a second, probably not going to leave a tip for a takeout order—which is expected—, but he hands back one of them, “Your tip jar has some gunk in it, so do you want to just keep it over there?”

          Right, the gum that he still needs to clean- but _yes! A dollar!_ Suck it, Mingyu, “Oh, thanks.” He tucks the dollar bill under the kiosk and picks up the plastic cup again to write his order on the side, “Name?”

          “Jun.”

          “June.” Jihoon repeats back as he writes down the four letters and looks up again after placing the cup to the side for Sam, “It’ll be ready in a minute.”

          The man smiles and nods before shuffling off to the side.

          Only to return in half a moment, “Do you have a rag or anything? I trailed some water in.”

          In the realm of shitty customers, this one is earning an invisible gold star. If they had stamp cards, Jihoon would punch out at least half the boxes, “Uh, yeah.” He rummages under the counter and comes up empty-handed, “One sec.” And leaves for the back cupboard where they keep all the cleaning supplies. He tries to find the least disgusting one and manages to grab a towel that only has a little singe on the corner from the time Wonwoo decided it was a good idea to use it to wipe down the panini press right after Mingyu had used it, “Here you,” oh, his hood is off, “go.”

          The expression he wears is so… sweet.

          In all honesty, the guy looks a little goofy and has a funny, awkward smile that’s a little boxy and full of teeth, but there’s not a thing creepy about him. At least he doesn’t _look_ like a murderer or stalker or a person-who-does-nice-things-for-an-ulterior-motive. If there’s anything he can read about Jun(e?) it’s that he seems like a very genuine person, albeit a little naïve. The tall, black-haired man takes the towel and starts mopping up the water as Jihoon takes another customer.

          Mingyu shoulders him out of the way to take the order instead. It seems like they know each other or something, but Jihoon doesn’t care. Idly cleaning or prepping the order for Sam to finish doesn’t bother him one bit. What does bother him is that decaffeinated coffee has a flavor just short of muddy water. In order to give it any sort of redeemable taste, you have to pull them as short ristrettos and double the final amount—he’s learned that much from picky customers complaining about their flavorless decaf blends.

          It’s not his fault they order this terrible brand.

          Since it seems like Sam is more ready to man the blender than to fulfill the order—which he doesn’t blame him for, orders are hard to remember—he doesn’t complain when he has to concoct the brew himself. A sheepish smile thanks him from the back counter where the brown-haired boy is diligently wiping the counter down as per Mingyu’s orders so, Jihoon sets to work pumping various ingredients into the cup: butter caramel syrup, heavy whipping cream, and the two shots of decaf ristretto. He dumps in a cup of milk and an extra squirt of caramel to up the sweetness—it might be a stretch, but he has a feeling that the guy probably just wants the sugar and it’s a little embarrassing for a grown man to come into a coffeeshop and ask for a cup of milk blitzed with dulce de leche and ice.

          Of course, Sam just _has_ to hand him the finished drink back to deliver the customer, “He’s too pretty, I’m too shy to look at him.” Or some bullshit excuse like that. For the record, he’s not that pretty. He’s _okay_. He’s too tall for Jihoon’s liking and before you say anything about height, let’s just say that what’s-his-face is more than a head taller and that’s absolutely unnecessary.

          “June.”

          The man comes over and retrieves his drink with a curt and enthused, “Thanks!” before he giggles about the spelling of his name. Okay, so if he was Japanese it would probably be spelled ‘J-U-N’ or something and if he was Korean, then maybe ‘J-O-O-N’, but it’s, like, coffeeshop culture to spell common or easy names wrong by default.

          “Welcome.”

          “Have a nice day,” he squints and smiles, “Jihoon.”

          It always catches him off guard and gives him a small heart attack every time someone he doesn’t know calls him by his name. His chest wrenches and he grinds a laugh out between his teeth before nodding and sending him off with a, “You too.”

          God, he hates that so much.


	2. Chapter 2

 

**CAPPUCCINO**

_one shot of espresso with steamed milk, two to three centimeters of microfoam on top, and sprinkled with shaved chocolate._  

 

* * *

 

          He hates that so, so much.

          He hates it so much so that he’s contemplated replacing his nametag with some casual, assimilated-American name like ‘Jeff’ or ‘Alex’ or ‘Patrick’ and it’s not because he’s embarrassed or ashamed about the name his parents gave him, it’s to avoid situations like that. Situations where customers he doesn’t know—and doesn’t care to know—approach him with such a casual tone, like they’ve been friends for years. He’d much rather feel detached from this job.

          Hearing his name said by a customer—even though this time it had better enunciation—means that he’s _here_. He’s in _this_ job and not the job that he’d like. It doesn’t mean that he’s failed at being a successful musician, but it means that he hasn’t worked at it long or hard enough to make anything sustainable out of it. And that bugs him. It bugs him because the peers in his major have thousands upon thousands of social media followers, that they can make ends meet with their Bandcamp earnings alone, and that he’s just not good enough. Yet.

          It might feel like an exaggeration, but when you work a job as comically _terrible_ as this and when you have peers as successful as _that_ , you can’t help but compare apples. Jihoon hates being associated with this café. Well, not really. He likes Mingyu, he likes Sam, he likes DK, he likes Minghao, and on the off occasion, he also likes Soonyoung and his too-loud-too-early antics. He doesn’t _hate_ his boss, he just hates his wage. He doesn’t _hate_ coffee, he just hates feeling stagnant. He hates feeling like he’s here, standing around making coffee and _wasting time_ that could be spent revising compositions in GarageBand or troubleshooting Audition for the umpteenth time. It’s repetitive labor, but it’s somehow satisfying when he finishes-

          “Earth to Jihoon, you’re closing up, right?”

          It takes him a second, trying to remember the time of day, what year it is. Is it Tuesday? Thursday? Oh, right, it’s Friday, “Yeah, I’m closing today.” It’s supposed to be a good day. He picks up the second cleanest rag on the counter and grabs a spray bottle from the shelf. There are only a couple customers left scattered about the café and he _would_ tell them that they’re closing if it wasn’t 20-till. They’re only allowed to start kicking customers out after the clock hits 5, “Sam, can you start mopping around the counter?” He has to remind the new kid to mop in front of the door last lest _another_ person slip and threaten to sue.

          Fridays are nice because he doesn’t work weekends.

          If there’s _one_ good thing about Mrs. Xu’s work schedule, it’s that she doesn’t force students to work weekends—although, they can probably thank Minghao for that one—and usually keeps the schedule open, either working herself or having her husband and other non-students work. During the summers and during vacations, Minghao also picks up a few shifts here and there, but he’s the type of guy who is determined to find work elsewhere. Jihoon knows for a fact that he works as a curator in the campus art department—another reason why Mingyu, the amateur artist, is gaga over him—and is rather studious. He has the privilege of not worrying about this dwindling bank account every second of every day and before you chide him about it, it’s not like Jihoon’s spending on pointless things.

          He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t smoke- well, he smokes _sometimes_ but only when invited and only when the stress becomes overbearing. He can count the number of times on his fingers, so please don’t worry. Generally, he’s a frugal spender who spends more time comparing fruit in Safeway than he does studying for Tuesday morning quizzes in Politics and Religion 306. Not his fault.

          Jihoon finally gets to clean the gum out of the tip jar.

          He gets to scrape at it with the butt of a ballpoint pen for almost ten minutes until Mingyu suggests rubbing some ice on it first. Yeah, whatever- oh, it’s working. Maybe the guy isn’t as dumb as he comes off to be. Maybe. He _did_ spend almost twenty minutes trying to fish a steaming tea bag out of a bottle of boiling hot water with his hands. As Asian-Americans working for Asians in a café in a town with a relatively high Asian population there’s an abundance—at least five pairs—of disposable chopsticks in the back cupboard.

          “Have fun shutting down. Don’t forget to work on that smile.”

          “Shut up.”

          “And don’t forget the tip you left under the register.”

          “I didn’t.”

          Then again, maybe Mingyu was just playing dumb to get Minghao’s attention. He does that enough times for it to become annoying.

          Jihoon doesn’t get it. Pining. Unrequited love. Flirting. Ugh.

          “Bye, Jihoon! Have fun locking up.”

          “Night, Sam.”

          In theory, Jihoon _knows_ that lovey-dovey, gooey-goober bullshit is the root of every pop song and the starting point of most musicians’ careers. Fruity, flowery love is something that most—if not all—people experience at least once. And, in theory, Jihoon understands those feelings, but he just doesn’t get them _right now_. Infatuation works like that.

          When you get it, you get it.

          The second you don’t, you lose all connections to it.

          The vibe isn’t right.

          Jihoon flips the switch for the lights and double checks that everything is where it should be and that Mingyu didn’t leave the milk on the counter like he does almost every Friday. Technically, his shift—or whoever is shutting down—runs until 5:30pm and he’s supposed to spend that last 30 minutes of customer-free silence making sure that everything is in order. If it is, he gets to clock out a little early and thusly, Jihoon has become an expert at expedited kitchen review.

          Freezer and fridge, check. Counters, check. Bathroom restock, check. Floors, check. Tables and chairs, check. Windows wiped, garbage removed, plants watered, sink emptied, dishwasher emptied, tip jar emptied- oh, right, the tip that that one guy left.

          He quickly patters behind the counter again and squints to see in the dim lighting. There’s plenty of light coming in from the large windows at the front of the shop, but the shadow of the kiosk makes it a little difficult to see the minutia of the counter. Reaching for the folded bill, Jihoon irons it out on the edge of the cash register and opens the side drawer where Samuel and Mingyu have been keeping their stacks of cash for the last two weeks—rubber-banded with their names on neon sticky notes, Sam’s in green, Mingyu’s in orange. He opted for the only color they had left, pink, and scrawled his name over it in blue Sharpie.

          Of course, his stack is deceivingly the thickest, probably nothing short of $20 since coins don’t count. His two coworkers—or Mingyu, at least—are probably well into their hundreds, exchanging their 1’s for 10’s and 20’s at the end of their shifts since the Xu’s don’t mind. Whatever is thrown into their tip jar is divided evenly if it isn’t explicitly ‘dedicated’ to them. Mingyu had gone so far as to say prolonged eye contact before squishing a bill in was enough ‘dedication’ to count as theirs. Bussing tables also counted as their own—the pseudo-implied rules go on.

          What really matters is that the bill he’s adding to his short-stack of dollars isn’t a 1 but a 5.

          Poor sap must’ve mistaken it for the 1 in his rush. Well, his loss and Jihoon’s gain. There’s still no chance that he’s going to catch up with Sam and Mingyu, but there’s hope. Maybe he can dupe all his customers into fumbling their money hard enough for all the 1’s to become 5’s. 10’s if he’s lucky.

          But who is he kidding.

 

          The following week lulls by at an incredibly arduous rate.

          Monday and Wednesday, he’s shafted with the opening shift at 5am and works until his 10am lecture hall across campus. Afterwards, he comes back and works through lunch, ending at 3pm before he promptly heads back to his flat and flops over on the couch until his roommates decide what to do for dinner. His homework? Well, his capstone has been… _progressing_. It’s not done by any means, but he’s still working with the animation department for the final deliverable for his Foley project.

          Tuesday and Thursday roll around like an average week. He—thankfully—doesn’t have to open or close and just works a limited number of hours around lunchtime. Sure, he hasn’t _get_ to eat lunch, but his roommate reminds him to eat an extra filling breakfast those days—which is nice since his standard breakfasts usually consist of a bowl of cereal and milk if they remember to buy it- and before you go off on a pointless tangent about how milk helps you grow taller, it’s his genetics and he knows he’s not getting any taller because he’s already well-past 20 and 20-somethings don’t really grow vertically.

          Up until Friday—and after trying his darnedest—Jihoon accrues only $25 in tips. In hindsight, it’s about five times more than he’d made on average the last two weeks, so he shouldn’t be complaining but, _goddammit,_ if Mingyu’s going to wave a $5 tip in his face for the third time since Wednesday he’s going to punch him in the face. Who in their right mind tips $5 for a $3.50 drink? People with money to burn, that’s who.

          Geez.

          The bell of the door jingles as a customer comes in and Mingyu steps up to take the order. Yes, they agreed that it would be fair game to take orders voluntarily and Mingyu’s people skills have claimed a majority of employee-customer facetime, but it’s not like Jihoon has tried. Okay, he hasn’t tried. He doesn’t like talking to people if he doesn’t have to. He’d much rather make drinks and brew some beans and clean so long as he doesn’t have to provide lip service in addition to taking orders-

          “Ah, give me a minute to look over the menu.”

          “No problem, if you have any questions, feel free to ask!” Tone it down, like, eight notches Mingyu.

          The bell jingles again and Jihoon checks his watch.

          It’s just a coincidence. It’s still—unfortunately—1:24. Nowhere _near_ closing time. Closing shifts on Friday aren’t terrible because people barely buy coffee this late into the day. The majority of their patrons are straggling college kids who use their massive tables in the back for group meetings when the library rooms are full and for people who have settled down with a book. There have been several instances where Jihoon has had to wake customers who had dozed off in the middle of their reads-

          “You can go ahead, I’m still looking.”

          Still looking? Is he soul searching?

          Mingyu takes the new customers’ orders and Jihoon wipes down the counter and turns the labels of the syrup containers so Samuel can easily see them. They’d decided that he ought to start memorizing more drink orders and the best way to do that is practice. Practice makes perfect and- Oh, it’s I’d-rather-have-a-milkshake-but-I’ll-order-decaf guy who is giving way and idly swaying as his eyes scan the menu for another three minutes.

          Thanks to the lack of rain, his hood is off. He’s wearing a light, deep navy cardigan to match the warming weather and his hair isn’t a total mess. The guy cleans up rather nicely but the most outstanding fact is that he’s not dripping wet and that Jihoon will not have to clean up after him. His name escapes his memory for the time being and the only thing that’s _really_ going through his head is how he almost feels guilty for blindly taking the $5 last week.

          “Mingyu, can you shadow Sam and make sure he gets all the ratios right?” Hearing Mrs. Xu’s chirpy and authoritative voice ring over the whir of the dishwasher calls their attention. She’s just passing through to take inventory, having come in through the back door with her tablet and a pen behind her ear, “Has my son come by today?”

          Jihoon looks at Mingyu first because his shift is the longest today, “No, he hasn’t.” She sighs and shakes her head. With puppy-love-filled intuition, the barista provides a cushioning response, “I think he said he would go to the library to study since it’s quieter there.”

          With a hum, she nods and says a curt goodbye. Mrs. Xu has tiger mom written across her forehead in big, bold letters and even though Minghao’s well into adulthood and is financially supporting himself, she’s always keen on checking up on him. How overbearing.

          Stepping up to the counter to shoo Mingyu away—and potentially nab his tips—, Jihoon smiles at the next customer, milkshake man, “Good afternoon,” is enunciated with a firmness set between his teeth. He breathes to loosen up his tongue, give a little pep to his words, “can I take your order?” Or do you need another ten minutes to stare at that simple chalkboard?

          “Decaf, blended caramellato, please.” His smile is also rather warm compared to how it was last week- if he had the mental capacity to think about it, he’d wonder why that’s something he remembers.

          “Regular?” the man nods with almost his entire upper body in a sort of wiggle-bow. He seems energetic, maybe he photosynthesized today, “For here or to go?”

          “For here.”

          And because Jihoon is definitely not paid enough, “Name?”

          Part of him is expecting the ‘what, don’t remember me?’ line that many patrons have given him, but it was a week ago and the man is humble enough to understand that someone who met you once for a handful of minutes will likely not remember your name, “Jun.”

          And because he’s feeling generous, today Jihoon decides to try a different spelling, “Joon.” He writes the four letters down and passes the cup onto Sam and Mingyu, “Cool, four dollars, please. Cash or card?”

          “Cash.” He pulls out a ten and hands it over and Jihoon returns a five and a one to him. Of course, he doesn’t expect the man to leave him a tip this time because he left so much last time, but he does drop a bill into the now-clean tip jar before walking off to a small table by the window.

          Sure. Yeah. Okay, the tip wasn’t _explicitly_ for him, but he’s going to claim it because both Sam and Mingyu aren’t paying any attention and he’s the one who helped- yeah, this is his dollar now, the other two can suck on their stacks of cash. And he wants to stop you before you jump to conclusions and questions because what happened to not giving a single flying fuck about this tip competition and its moot point? Nothing. Jihoon still doesn’t give a damn because he _knows_ there’s no chance that he’ll beat Mingyu and the probability of him beating Samuel is getting slimmer and slimmer as the days pass. And even though it’s winner-take-all, he still feels like hanging on to all the tips he’s rightfully earned up until that point.

          But when he rubs the bill between his fingers and slides it into his stack, he sees that it’s—once again—a five.

          This idiot- this _fool_ has tipped him $10 for two coffees and today Jihoon’s not even making it.

          What. Does he want some special attention or treatment or something? If this is a means to start flirting, Jihoon’s not interested. The only thing he’s has time for is The Grind™ and he’s dating his midi and- well, he is kind of endearing. He has a little, cute baby blue pencil bag and his mechanical pencil has a little rainbow sprinkle bobble shaker on the end. What is he studying? Business? Foreign affairs? Diversity studies? He’s so focused flipping through his textbook with his lips pursed-

          No, Jihoon.

          You’re at _work_ , you ought to focus your energy here.

          Work is work is work is work is work.

          He’s going to focus on refilling the stack of takeout cups and opening a bag of fresh beans to roast in preparation for the 2 o’clock rush. He’s going to do his job, gather his tips and his pride and trudge home in just three and a half hours. He can do this.

          But there’s no one coming in and the three of them can only scrub at the counter so many times before their fingers turn raw, “Jihoon, can you take this drink over? I’m going to teach Sammy how to use the panarello.”

          “Yeah, sure, whatever.” Absentmindedly, he agrees—whether it’s because he was lost in his thoughts or too busy mulling over how _not_ to pay attention to his inadvertent tipper escapes him—and picks up the tall glass cup and two napkins. Before he realizes that he’s standing near the studious man, he realizes that he’s simply dozed off with his chin resting on his palm. From a distance, it looked like he was reading, but now that Jihoon’s a mere two feet away from him, it’s plain to see that the content of his reads are as monotonous as this extended 1pm lull.

          He debates waking him.

          Time spent sleeping is time wasted in his book. He came in to study but he’s sleeping through it and not getting anything done. If it were him, he’d rather someone wake him. As an employee of BLAQ Coffeehouse, though, it’s absolutely none of his business whether Joon(?) gets his work done—he can’t loiter past closing, but if he’s a paying customer that wants to take a little snooze, then there’s not much he can say—and he certainly isn’t partial to shaking him awake.

          To compromise, he sets the heavy glass down with a decently loud thump. It probably wasn’t loud enough to wake him or draw unwanted attention, but the patron stirs and startles awake after coming to his senses. At least he’s a light sleeper, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry I fell asleep.”

          “No worries.”

          The sheer shock and embarrassment on his face is—for lack of better word—charming. The red that blooms on his cheeks and in his ears is—for lack of better word—adorable. The nervous laugh that fills the empty space between them is—for lack of better word—pretty.

          Jihoon raps his fingers on the edge of the wooden table before gesturing towards his drink and excusing himself. He almost has to fight himself to not deliver a short monologue about how many _worse_ things customers have done in the past. Almost.

          Almost, because at the end of the day, Jihoon is still a minimum wage barista at a popular downtown café who clocks in and clocks out and has no business mixing cheeky, social flirting with his job. All is well. This is how things go.

          He also—100%, totally, completely—does _not_ want to have his feelings persuaded by money.

          Crisp hundreds might make his dick half-hard, but he’s got _so many other things_ to worry about that a relationship is the _last_ thing on his mind-

          Why is he still thinking about it?

          Why is he still brewing this silly, stupid, mundane situation? It’s not like whatever-his-name-is is the first person to tip well. Patrons generally tip a lot more generously around the holidays. It’s not like he’s the first attractive customer to tip. There have been _many_ of those.

          But maybe it’s because it’s been a hot minute since Jihoon has been on the receiving end of attraction—been on the unfeeling side of a one-sided love. He doesn’t even remember the last person that professed their feelings to him. It was always him making the first moves and- _again with this_. _Really?_ Are we going to write a cliché narrative about this customer all day?

          No!

          He’s just another patron. He’s just another dollar in the tip jar. He’s just another decaf sugar rush with no substance.

          He’s just- asleep again.

**Author's Note:**

> *In America, it's customary for patrons to leave a tip after a dine-in meal--usually under a cup when they're done or on the bill caddie after they've paid--which is a dollar amount that's about 15% of the total cost of the meal. However, for places like cafes and to-go eateries/fast food, tips are often not demanded and instead patrons can leave a tip in a tip jar by the register. Typically, it's whatever coins they have left from change and, if they're generous, a dollar or two, but more often than not, people don't tip (especially at chain stores like Starbucks and especially not at McDonald's). 
> 
> ** $1 = 4 quarters = 10 dimes = 20 nickles = 100 pennies and yes, everyone in America hates pennies even though they're lucky if found heads-up.  
> \---


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